21 for 21!

Sioned and I took a roommate trip to the wonderful land of Ooty. Our epic duo celebrated Sioned’s 21st birthday during our travels and vowed to commemorate her special day and our trip with a list. The list accurately details our week together!
21 for 21
1. 21 pictures of interesting people we encountered. This included an Israeli man named Dani, a slender feminine faced German man, an Indian who worked for the ‘post-it’ company, a fabulous trekking guide, some cunning horseback riding hawkers, a French hippie and much more
2. Using the word “quaint” 21 times
3. 21 pees
4. 21 hi-fives, only when warranted by epic circumstances
5. 21 cow spottings
6. Play 21. Card games are frowned upon as a heathen pastime here, but we proudly played several hands and bet crackers while enduring many ill stares
7. Eat 21 orange toes
8. haggle for 21 rupees
9. log 21 epic events:
     1. The plane waited for us to take off for Coimbatore
     2. The wealthy ‘post-it’ Indian gave us a ride from the airport to the bus station
     3. Finding and boarding our bus to Ooty despite everyone claiming our plane-bus connection was too short
     4. Trotting on horseback along Ooty’s lake, surprisingly painful experience
     5. Arriving at the train station in style: by motorcycle
     6. A rail and auto rickshaw ride through heaven: tea fields which look something like finding nemo’s anemone home
     7. Dolphin’s nose: a spectacular vista which gave us sweeping views of the Nilgiri Hills and Catherine Falls
     8. Trekking amongst sheep farms, eucalyptus trees and villages in Ooty
     9. Mistakably viewing the wildlife sanctuary we thought we didn’t have time for, from atop “the mountain” as our guide called it
    10. Tour downtown Ooty sans Lonely Planet
    11. Our birth onto a bus: if you have not heard this story please ask me someday!! It involves facial expression and body movements which can’t be conveyed here. This is possibly the MOST epic of all our events.
    12. Pineapple massacre: we bought a pineapple for dinner and cut into it like butter with only spoons! Mmm
    13. Watching National Treasure in our hostel room!
    14. Journaling in a tree which was situated on the steep hillside of Tarzan Mountain
    15. Train thali: slurping up dinner Indian style on a sleeper train for a large male audience
    16. Big 100: the biggest, manliest protein bar I have ever consumed. Nearly an ellie cubit!
    17. Beach mirage: we took a walk to the beach which ended up being an hour and a half struggle on empty stomachs
    18. Pocahontas backwater tour: paddling through the backwater village towns of Kerela
    19. Surviving Ponani
    20. Wild elephant gazing from the windows of our sleeper train
    21. Spontaneously teaching children at a small school prior to hopping on our final train and being served 3     of the largest dosas I have ever seen as gratitude for our visit
10. Hear 21 recognizable songs
11. Play the number game to 21
12. Eat 21 peanuts
13. 21 jumping jacks
14. 21 pushups
15. 21 Hindi vocab words
16. 21 Indian head bobbles (performed by us)
17. Shell 21 Kerelan prawns
18. Make 21 weird faces
19. Identify 21 scents: some of these scents may seem quite normal to those of you in the west, but experiencing some of them here was quite odd: burning trash, corn, pine needles, waste water, road sealant, cow manure, campfire, eucalyptus, sheep, rain!!!!, baby powder, adolescent boy cologne, Body Odor, fresh produce, the palace scent, fresh fish, spice market, masala dosa burp, chocolate, ocean, stale cab
20. 21 flowers in our hair
21. Leave behind 21 fingerprints: easily accomplished after eating our greasy dosas

Bussing through the city this morning, I saw a man walking through the hubbub and din wearing a t-shirt, athletic shorts and flip flops. My first thought was: “sir, this is not a beach party, although you are walking amongst piles of pineapple and mango, what gives you the excuse to be so scantily clad?” Wow. This is actually happening! Im turning full on Indian and there is no stopping it!

Mamals!

I have had too many peculiar human interactions to log. My odd animal encounters are quite extensive as well, but the weird ones warrant a little recognition:


The tiger:
One lazy afternoon, we motivated and went to the Hyderabadi zoo. Our company had friends in high places and decided to give us a special treat. Me and 4 of my other international buddies were ushered into a humid jail cell with slivers of sunlight. The entire cage was breathing. Before us sat an enormous, beautiful, majestic tiger!! The beast’s breath was causing the walls to vibrate and only a handful of iron bars separated us from massive canines. If I had extended my hand, the tiger could have easily shredded it, but at the same time her fluffy golden coat looked so inviting. The delicate whiskers rested atop such an intense mouth! Its purr vibrated through my whole body! I stood 1 foot away from this beast of a tiger!!!!


The monkeys:
During our exploration of Mumbai, we decided to take a hiatus from the city life and enjoy a ferry ride to Elephanta Island. Elephanta Island is famed for its Dravidian sculptures and cave carvings but ironically has nothing to do with elephants, drats. The island loomed like jurassic park in the smoggy cloak as our boat approached. We stepped off the ferry and began our steep climb through the colorful bazaar, complete with its own magic and Halloween mask shop (how bizarre). Blue tarps shaded our heads from the intense sun, but we couldn’t ignore the odd rustlings and chatterings above our heads. Peering around the tarps we caught our first glimpse of elephanta monkeys! Oh, they were so cute! Dangling from tree limbs, eating bugs from each other’s hair, doing all the stereotypical monkey things-but when you see them in person its completely adorable! I wonder if that is what Indians think when observing our stereotypical American selves? Maybe they are disgusted instead?
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We were sauntering between Elephanta's caves. A couple in front of us was chatting intimately while they walked and swung a grocery bag bulging with snacks. BAM! A monkey roared out of nowhere and ambushed this poor couple. With a ferocious growl and a quite mighty swing of its arm, the monkey ripped the bag from this woman’s clutches. We stood paralyzed 2 feet from this vicious monkey attack hoping to go unnoticed. Alpha monkey had a side kick, scar-face, who suddenly became quite interested in our pack of pupils. Adrian, feeling quite confident in her monkey fending off abilities, charged at the monkey and kicked it. Bad decision. The worst decision. Now scar-face and alpha monkey were lividly gnashing their teeth and lunging in our direction. We scattered! Maybe I should have gotten my rabies shot after all.

We journeyed to Ellora to view some of the greatest monolithic carvings in the world. After extensively exploring the ellora carvings on a ground level, my roommate and I ventured to the top of the escarpment surrounding this magnificent carving to gain a different vantage point. When I popped my head over the flattened upper crust, I saw a monkey. Black faced and calmly enjoying the view. His torso was 2/3 the size of my whole body; a big boy. Sioned surfaced and stood 3 feet from the edge of the cliff capturing the magnificent view through her lens. The monkey, suddenly feeling restless I suppose, began galloping full speed toward Sioned. I jumped in front of the primate as it bounded. I shouted “HEY!!”, growled and waived my arms to distract it from its target, but this animal’s focus could not be broken. Using Sioned as a spring board to round a corner, it leapt into the air and rebounded off her backpack with all four feet. Sioned stumbled forward 1.5ish feet from the brute monkey rebound. Thank goodness she had time to brace herself and was not closer to the edge of the cliff!

The terrain of Hampi is a life size dribble castle. Boulders are piled up to create the most unique looking hills. 600 steps lead travelers up one of Hampi’s tallest hillsides to Hanuman’s temple. We powered up as tens of white tourists slipped down. We chatted with several of them, most of them European, a few Asian. One batch of ladies advised us to keep our food out of sight of the monkeys. Being the birth place of Hanuman, the monkey god, monkeys were known to call this hill home. We paused on a bend in the stairs to feast on the view and feast on our dinkers (our name for the tiny bananas which manage intense potassium, flavor and sugar into such a small package!). We pulled the tiny bananas from Sioned’s bag and didn’t even have time to peel back the skin before a tidal wave of monkeys poured over the boulder side! They were jumping down boulders with such speed and agility! I clenched my fist and made ready to slug any monkey that dared get within the reach of my arm. We saw the fierce banana crazed look in their eyes as they picked up speed. They were closing in on all sides and we paniced! We hurled the dinkers towards their heads just in time to distract them and protect us!


The Dogs:
Lets just say there is one dog at shop com that looks like he is the house pet of a dementor. This dog is walking death. Covered with mange, every bone visible through this poor animal’s translucent skin. I didn’t know mange was a real disease before spending time with the canines of this country. Mange causes an animal to ferociously bite and scratch their skin until their fur is replaced by awful pussy scabs. This awfully sickening sight gives me nightmares.


The cow:
Honestly cow stories are never in short supply, they are bystanders in almost every situation and business transaction, but this is my favorite interaction to date. Picnicking at the meteorite strike site seemed to be the best way to spend our afternoon in Lonar. We settled as a group under a wide brimmed tree to eat our dates, peanut butter sandwiches and oranges. One adorable cow took particular interest in us westerners. She must have found me quite approachable, for she kept whipping her snotty nose on my leg. After exploring each of our pants, it became clear that she was just using us for our snacks. She became quite insistent on sticking her nose in our pb jar. We kept passing the jar between us to make our delicacy a moving target, but she seemed to enjoy the thrill of this game. The safety and purity of our peanut butter was of utmost importance in my mind, so I decided to take more drastic measures. I took a solid stance and shouldered her large ribs. She looked at me with eyes that read “are you kidding?” Unfazed, she still pursued the peanut butter. I was persistent, but so was she. Both driven by the promise of peanut butter, it was a battle of wills. I laid every ounce of force I possessed into her large body time after time. I slowly but forcefully I drove her far enough away so we could eat in peace. The peace only lasted a minute, till we noticed an aggressive ant colony swarming us. Kate’s leg was the only serious casualty (I had to remove and ant with my swiss army knife pliers). We decided to finish our meal on the move.

Mumbai Express (not to be confused with its cousins the Polar or Hogwarts)

All day we have been antsy about Mumbai. Our first venture out of our beloved Hyderabad kept my brain working in overdrive the night before; things to pack, things to see, errands to run, excitement to be had and expectations to be met. At 7pm sharp our cab arrived. Wow, so prompt, which left us unprepared! Caught off guard by this unexpected timely gesture, we stuffed our faces with dozens of momos (Tibetan dumplings), roti, rice, dal and papaya. A rather unfortunate affair, since that is one of my favorite meals. Kate, our fearless leader, of course was the only one prepared and the rest of us scrambled. I snatched up my plaid pack and sleeping bag and helped heard all our Mumbai bound babies toward our Jeep Grand Cherokee look alike. Most people had 1 backpack and a carry on, like me. 8 of us were unkemptly crammed into the jeep while the rest of the 4 girls nauseatingly peered through the open doors. No one quite knew where to rest each others’ arms because the shoulder collisions forced bizarre contortions. One of my arms made its way out the window and I don’t even know whose body parts my other limbs laid atop. Maybe it was luggage? Either way both of my elbows were several inches above my shoulders. This I knew. 4 more girls and their luggage somehow folded into the car: a new meaning of double stuffed. The driver took our mind off our physical discomfort by serenading us with Will Smith, Linkin Park, Black Eyed Peas, and Gaga. At first we felt the buzz from the jams we recognized. We chattered and gabbed. I recognized voices, but could not identify the bodies they were coming from. Suddenly, we all calmed. The rather simultaneous muting was interrupted by a small voice from the bowels of our dog pile. “Can you shift to the left? Im feeling nauseous.“ Various degrees of motion sickness/nausea enveloped all members of our party.

Our train was set to depart at 8:40pm. It is now 8:00pm. Where is the train station? I recognize where we are, but I don’t really know where the train station is in relation to our vehicle. Nerves begin to overwhelm the nausea. The blood had drained from my fingertips long ago and was pooling in my shoulders. My knees were being barraged by something quite solid and my sweaty skin was grafting to whatever objects it was pressed against. The cab driver makes us promise if the police pulls us over, to tell the officer our driver barrowed the cab from a friend (we were WAY over capacity). The lights of the Nampalli Train Station pull into view. 8:17pm.

The swarms of people outside the station have never looked so inviting! Nauseous, excited, sticky people tumble out of the cab and rush into the madness. We have no idea what we are doing and it is Very apparent. The fast paced movement of the people is intoxicating. A red digital clock stares at us in the atrium.8:21pm. We follow the crowd to the platform and search for ticket interpreting assistance.

Train tickets! Oh boy, since we booked the train merely 2 weeks in advance we were initially put on a waitlist. There are too many people in India to just pick up and buy any transportation tickets. Buying tickets 2 months in advance guarantees a seat, buying tickets 2 weeks prior to travel is a gamble. Our house manager, Mr. Das, assured us we had moved off of the waitlist into confirmed seats on the train before we left our hostel. Due to printer problems, we were unable to print out our confirmed tickets and only possessed a small paper which showed our waitlisted status. This paper confused every Indian we showed it to, and no one pointed us toward helpful information.

8:33pm. We are paralyzed amidst hundreds of Indians. Saris and beggars, venders and toothless men gaze at our white female pod. I notice a huge crowd disappearing into the train. The crowd pauses for a moment to look at a paper, then, is consumed by the train. Kate, faulty ticket in hand, darts off toward the crowd.

8:37pm. Why aren’t we doing anything!? Are Indian trains as prompt as American trains?? I pace around and swivel my head wildly. Maybe my exaggerated body movements will help us find our train car. I jog the length of the train feeling like my actions might help in some way, or maybe I will catch a glimpse of the ever elusive Kate.

8:38:30pm. Kate appears, sweaty and wide eyed. She doesn’t need to say anything, we just run. A string of 12 white girls weaves through the locals, who begin to point and laugh at us. Pure amusement is in their eyes. We are Thursday night entertainment!

8:39:30pm. The names of the passengers are posted on papers to the right of each door compartment. The noise in the station is swallowing our voices and cluttering my mind. 24 nervous eyeballs scan the sheet. Eleanor Mackintosh. YES! Becca reads aloud the names in my compartment and we shove onto the train. The aisle is narrow, and so are the seats on the left side. The right side is quite deep; it appears 4 or 5 can sit comfortably across the bench on the right side. The eyes of Indian men snap toward us to observe our confused white actions. I am taken aback by the overwhelming ratio of men to women on this compartment. About 80 indian men, to 6 american women. I uneasily inch into the compartment to collect my bearings. This will be my home for the next 16 hours. We haven’t the slightest idea how to find our seats. I am struck by how blueish everything is. Blue plastic covers all seating areas, blueish brown floors support our feet, and worn blue like paint coats all remaining surfaces. Black dirt and piles of trash collect in every corner and crevice, and every inch of space is occupied by brown bodies. Clutching our faux ticket print out, we are limboing in the space between 2 compartments. The train lurches and we are off!

Some man standing with us in limbo land is insisting we have no seats on the train. He keeps urging us to exit from whence we came. “You will get refunded! Just get off or be fined.” He stated the facts so clearly. Well, our oppotunity to exit the train car flits past the open door as we rush out of the station. “No, we have seats on this train, we just don’t know where to find them!!!” He kept increasing his volume and smiling broader by the second, as we grew hotter and louder by the millisecond. My beet red face pulsed each time he repeated “get off, or be fined”. We sounded so delusional and looked even crazier: sweaty, disheveled, bulging terrified eyes in our heads because the skeptical Indian men watched our every move. Each of us took to voicing some helpful pearl of wisdom on repeat. We became an irritated and irritating accapella ensemble: “we have seats on the train! We HAVE seats on the train!!” “im sweaty, im sweaty, im sweaty.” “is there a woman’s compartment? Where’s the woman’s compartment?” “ok, im being pushed. Stop jostling me! Ok, im being pushed. Stop jostling me!” “Our printer was broken, so we weren’t able to print the most recent ticket sir.” “who is this guy? Wait, why are we listening to him? Who is this guy?”

“our names were posted on the paper outside of the door,” a voice added to the mix. The voice of reason sent a wave of calm over everyone. A man overheard and sheparded us to our shallow seats.

A sleeper car: the configuration of a sleeper car will be difficult to describe, so I will try my very best. The deep right side has 2 bench configurations facing each other. 2 plastic top bunks bolted high above the “bottom bunk bench” are only 2ish feet from the ceiling. A middle bunk lays flat and unused against the wall, until sleep time provokes the unfolding of this “in between bed”. So, 6 passengers sleep in 6 separate beds on the right side of the car. An aisle separates this deep 6 bunk side from 2 upright seats. These seats are perpendicular to the 6 bunks, face each other in a booth style configuration and are bordered by another bunk to the top. 2 humans are expected to share this bottom bunk. Quite intimate! Thankfully, we were all paired with Americans we knew, not strange Indians. Becca and I sat quietly in the upright seats, wondering how we would unfold the bed when the moment arose. The vacant upper bunk lured me in with its promise of personal space. I scampered up to journal and try to settle in.

Exhaustion hits like a ton of bricks. I soon became guardian of the valuables, since my bunk was least accessible and most spacious. I had already witness one of our own get pick pocketed and was feeling particularly feisty toward strangers. How does one sleep when so many are watching and all of the cameras have been entrusted to her? I exposed my back to the train aisle traffic and masculine eyes. I wrapped my limbs around camera bags and backpacks. I was trying to create a barrier with my body and at the same time make contact with each parcel I was guarding. I drifted off to sleep with surprising ease! About an hour later someone lightly tapped between my shoulder blades. I was on edge enough to jolt awake, but pretended to be asleep. I intently listened in order to decipher who was stroking me. I did not want to interact with any of the gawking men. Thankfully, I recognized the voice as one of my friends and heeded her request to forfeit my top bunk outpost. The passenger who had purchased this bunk just boarded the train. I distributed our valuables back to their owners and climbed into bed with Becca. Becca and I reluctantly shoved our valuables under the bunk. We fit together like tetris pieces! I slept face out, so to keep one eye on our bags. I vigilantly peered through my eyelashes, observing the activities of all of our compartment mates. People were brushing up against me, sitting next to my head, staring, and rummaging underneath our bunk. I was trying to sleep in a grimy blue plastic display case! Only, I wished there was glass to separate Becca and I from the curious Indians. It was much busier down here and colder too! A 1cm gap in the window exposed our bodies to the rushing air. I kept looking for spaces Becca’s body had recently occupied and moving my body parts quickly to the warm spot. We were both shivering. Suddenly, epiphany! I brought my sleeping bag! Do I want to draw more attention to us by whipping out a northface sleeping bag? Men were laughing hysterically and I couldn’t tell if it was related to us, or something else all together. I tried contracting my muscles to keep up my body temperature…no dice. I tried to sneakily slip under Becca’s scarf blanket…no success. Sleeping bag came out, and sleep relief began. Blood curdling cries from a small child lulled me to sleep.

I was woken by the sun and the urge to use the bathroom. Armed with toilet paper and a sense of accomplishment for sleeping most of the night I unlatched the latrine door. I was slapped in the face with one of the foulest smells which has ever traveled into my nostrils. Pure filth, extreme body odor with an aftertaste urine stings my eyes. I must forcefully exhale this scent from my respiratory tract! It is offensive on many biological and emotional levels. The floor is coated with a thin film of brown liquid. I survive the bathroom with minimal gagging. I pass several families squatting in the trashy connection between the train cars on the way back to my seat. Women made dirty nests amongst the refuse in the busiest part of the train for their overnight accommodations.

As, sunlight poured into the cars and warm chai was distributed to all, our accommodations seem much less dire. Our disorientation gave way to curiosity. The 6 men opposite Becca and I expressed similar interest. Vendors passed up and down the aisle “Chaayyy coffee, coffee chai!”, selling zippers or strawberries. Honestly, it was a convenient store conveyor belt. Anything you could ever want would pass by being proceeded by an eerie sing-song proclamation of the product being sold. A child acrobat began to jest with the boys across from us. This seemed to be a popular theme. People, especially other men, loved to stop in their compartment, gawk at us and make merry with the men across the way. It didn’t take much to excite the gathering of men in the compartment across from us. Simple deeds like, reading Lonely Planet, writing in my journal, eating dates, or making friendship bracelets solicited open mouthed stares, laughter, or a question from a brave soul. They spoke in rapid hindi, and Becca and I were able to pick out words here and there. One man was nudged forward by his friends and he tried to casually inquire about our knowledge of hindi. “Tora. Tora. (little. Little)” I responded. You would have thought I offered each one of them a million dollars! Sheer joy broke across their faces and an eruption of noise filled the train! It was in that moment that I noticed there were about 20 men surrounding our little nest. The applauded and clawed each other as they rolled with laughter. We continued to exchange broken hindi and broken English with enthusiasm. Becca and I were no longer the only 2 occupying our seat. Our friends took it upon themselves to sit next to us and between us. We watched beautiful canyons roll by our window and learned they were students as well. Right before they disembarked, a man who had been occupying the corner of my seat and questioning me in raspy tones, slipped a bracelet on my wrist. Small gestures of kindness here can be misconstrued as quite large proposals. It is quite possible that this raspy man now thinks we are engaged. They yelled goodbye from the platform and wished us “happy January”!

I wrote this in mid January and it is remarkable how much I have grown since originally taking down these thoughts. I rode on a sleeper train a week ago and actually remarked to my travel mates how much I enjoy that mode of transportation and how clean the train car was!CRAZY!

hello again!

On March 9 at precisely 1:35pm Mr. Das handed over a DHL package to my quivering hands after much jumping, dancing and skidding around the common room! Ahhhh, sighs of relief were heard all around the world at this fateful moment. Thali Topshiba, as I have named him, is full of quarks, but hey, so am I. We are perfect for each other! The next several posts are written as I recorded them in my journal. Much has evolved since their recording, but I thought I should give insight into my initial impressions. Long overdue:

A day in the life of Indian Ellie (these events are subject to change. I am learning nothing, not even existing recognized states, are permanent fixtures in India…mine could change while im studying here. Making my semester potentially historical!)

5:15am spend ½ a second trying to figure out where I am as I feel around for my watch alarm. Hyderabad, right. Sioned, my roommate, and I once again remind each other why we decided to take the certification yoga course while I thumb through the darkness to find sweats, tennies, head lamp, keys…the essentials. A quite groggy tooth-brushing session takes place and fellow yogis greet each other with grunts and mouths full of foamy minty paste.

5:30am Yogis assemble! We tie our hoods securely, place a much needed headlamp over top our hoodie clad heads and thrust our hands into “sock mittens” just prior to mounting our bikes. We look like a crazed gang of mining lepers--our matted hair shoved beneath our hoods, our lamps guiding us on the poorly lit road, not an inch of skin exposed to the cold except our faces. The mornings are quite chilly (probs upper 40’s) in contrast to the dry heat of the afternoon. This is how a desert landscape must react to the lack of sun. How silly for me to bring zero warm clothes! Our single file ride to yoga is steadily uphill. Our morning cycle hinges on balance: ride quickly enough to avoid eager but quite mangy pups that want to be loved, but look terribly diseased (except for the one I named bright eyes) and slow enough to cut our sleepy legs some slack. There aren’t any good conversationalists in our pre-yoga pack, so we swap head bobbles as we listen to the call to prayer and observe the celestial bodies overhead.

5:50am The oddly packaged westerners stumble into the yoga center and quickly swipe mats before they all go. I position myself in the 3rd row and smile healthily at my Indian classmates. Shoot, I really want to know them! The girls just giggle at me and whisper to their friends. Maybe it is because I have socks on my hands, or forgot to take off my headlamp, or the socks on my feet aren’t fit with a sandal dimple between the big and second toe. Whatever the case, I have work to do there!

6:00am Our bull fogged instructor waddles into the Yoga Hall. No one knows his name; we have appropriately dubbed him Papa Ohm. His blue polo stretches tightly over his spherical belly. A white mustache adorns his dark upper lip. Many things about his body are round, but in an odd muscular way--sausage toes, meaty feet, bold forearms, thick neck holding up his froggy head. As he instructs our moves, his voice thunders through the echoy chamber. His old ears restrict him from speaking at a low level. When anyone is performing a posture incorrectly, he raises his voice to deafening decibels while repeating “knees appaart!” While instructing us to relax, instead of injuring our eardrums, he drops his tone much lower. “sagg your body.” I slip in and out of sleep throughout the practice.

7:05am The chanting of the Ohm closes class, and we enter into the chilling sunshine of morning. What a difference the sun makes!! Our ride home from yoga is quite different than our somber star lit ride prior to practice. We chitter, chat and sing on our mostly downhill roll back to Tagore. The day is beautiful; monkey sightings may treat our eyes!

7:20am Dismount at Tagore. We all make conversation while sneakily trying to slip into the 4 showers without the others noticing. Out of the 4 showers, 2 are prime real estate (usually warm and unclogged). It is a fun little game!

8:00am Breakfast! My stomach begins making funny noises when I arrive at the yoga center, so I am commonly the 1st one down for breakfast when they open the door to the dining hall. Every morning toast, hardboiled eggs, cereal and curd are offered. Depending on the day, oatmeal, French toast, banana pancakes, ufo shaped rice patties and curry, a butter roll and chutney, or masala French toast is offered. The most challenging part of breakfast is egg ordering. No matter what you tell our adorable petite kitchen staff, there is no way to predict how the egg will turn out. I have never actually received the egg I thought I ordered. Scrambled eggs look like the scrapings from the frying pan--charred eggy residue left over from previous egg endeavors. Which begs the question, where did the actual eggs go? My multivitamin is swallowed with a swig of freshly squeezed grape juice!

8:30am If im lucky, I have secured a skype date for this time. But mostly I use this time to bum around. Depending on the day I begin class at 9am or 10am. Here I will describe my profs:

Satypriya Raot. Social Stratification. We are currently comparing Indian Social Stratification to Western/Marxist Social Strat. As of late, we have been getting a good look into the caste system. Our professor has the most perfectly groomed mustache! It sits perfectly sized below his nose, not interfering with the functions of his mouth. I have deduced: mustaches in India are a sign of masculinity. Most professionals, gurus, and important figures sport them. I have seen a wide variety of mustache and face combinations, and professor Raout’s is quickly climbing to the top of my mustache log. Prof Raot’s lecturing voice is quite high and restricted, but quite loud in volume--picture a loud Indian Kermit the frog. That fits his voice to a tee actually! He scratches the board with his chalk as he talks. I squirm and clench my teeth each time the chalk screeches across the board. I can only exhale once he has kindly placed the chalk on the desk. The Indian students in the class are a giggly crowd. The girls and boys don’t sit amongst each other. An invisible line segregates the sexes, and now that I reflect, I realize I have been sitting on the “boys side”! Thankfully Raot will repeat his lecture points 8 times before moving onto the next topic. It takes my anglicized ears 8 repeats to understand what he is saying.

Aruna. Kuchipudi Dance. This woman brings the Indian Guru-student relationship to life in her classroom. She is a large woman and demands 100% attention, effort, and respect from her students. Her idea of respect comes in the form of servitude: bringing her tea, fetching her water, buying her an occasional gift, presenting her with the wooden block and rhythm stick, and touching her feet after class. In return she has vowed to turn us into the best kuchipudi dancers out potential will afford. We stand in lines and obey the rhythmic language Aruna beats out on her block and interpret it in to a variety of squatting, kicking, and arm opening movements. I have never moved like this before, but I enjoy the thigh burning challenge. I also have made it my goal to make Aruna smile throughout the course of the semester. She loves to call me out for my goofy antics and harshly corrects our form with sharp words. If we are lucky, she will have to get out of her throne to demonstrate. Despite her size and aged ankles, she never ceases to defy physics with her nimble movements-Quite impressive!

Sucita (Soo-chi-ta). Hindi every day form 12-1. Every class without fail I manage to make Sucita laugh. This comic relief is completely unintentional. My hindi accent is atrocious, but I desperately try!! There is a distinct nasal sound in the hindi language which I can only accomplish if I extremely exaggerate. I talk from the back of my throat to force the uncomfortable sound. Sucita thinks my pronunciation is hilarious! She is a tough cookie and moves our lessons at an impressive rate. She wears a no-nonsense attitude along with her wonderfully colorful salwar kameeze(Indian outfit involving: scarf, pant, and top) and scrunchy. Our class is full of tez log (quick witted people), so the class is fun! I find learning hindi much easier than other languages I have studied. Without fail, every class, I feel time stop. Lunch is served at 1pm. My breakfast at 8 has long since expired, leaving me stuck in a hypoglycemic hindi moment. It hits me suddenly and I can’t focus on anything else. I feel so light headed and usually sit as still as possible to conserve every ounce of energy. I can feel my stomach searching every corner for food as it continually grumbles…so uncomfortable. I always feel weak and small after hindi as I stumble towards lunch.

1:00pm LUNCH! Lunch is a completely vegetarian endeavor. I load my plate ½ full of fresh fruit! Pineapple, papaya, or watermelon are neatly diced each day and sit freshly waiting for my arrival. Oh so crisp and perfectly ripe! Next along the buffet sits the fresh veggies, curd, round bread (cipati, roti, naan or handkerchief), a variety of chutneys and some form of hyper sugary dessert: bread pudding, ladoo, butterscotch bar, coconut bar, honey roll, donut. A tea stand separates the cool buffet from the hot lunch options. Krishna, a petite jovial man, stands at the ready behind the hot food stand. He slaps the surface of curries with his giant spoon and mixes the vegetables while chanting “sooo goodt, sooooo goodt.” He lifts a spoon of dal (a lentil based curry usually bright yellow in color)up to his shoulder, and pours it back into the chrome vat with a flick of the wrist. I don’t know the names of any of the hot food items offered here, so I just point and Krishna slops heaping mountains of food on my plate. I can never finish what he portions me and I hate to waste, so I have come up with a variety of ways to decrease the amount of food he heaps on my plate; each with different success rate. I originally tried stating quite clearly, “only a little!” He understands English, but apparently not this phrase, because that yielded an entire plate drowned in dal. I began to motion with my fingers, little pinching motions, coupled with “just a little, just a little, just a little” on repeat. The heap of rice on my plate and number of fried bread squares smothered my beautiful fruit. My next approach involved precise timing and wrist flicking agility. When I present my plate to Krishna, I still motion and repeat “just a little”, but in addition, I quickly remove my plate while he is dumping on the goods. I must do this quick enough so some of the item lingers on my plate while the rest slops back into its own receptacle. If I move too slowly, Krishna’s spoon will follow my plate and pollute the other containers with its dribble.

2:00pm with lunch in my belly, I swiftly bike to Indian Philosopy. Prof Prasand has an unusually angular nose, rectangular glasses, a single snaggle tooth in his lower row of incisors and a large forehead (not large north to south like dad’s, but expansive east to west). He is slight in stature with a small potbelly, almost as if he is smuggling a seedless watermelon. As he lectures he accumulates excessive amounts of saliva, which never exit from his mouth. Im convinced the snaggle tooth has something to do with his moist speech. He smirks as he asks “How do you know, what you know is true?” In response, students sign and search each other’s eyes for aid. This class is situated right after lunch, and I enjoy prime people watching conditions-- sleepy Americans with full tummies. One girl struggles with her lids for at least 30 minutes each class. She puts up such a good fight and tries shaking her leg, shifting her weight, and pushing up her lowerlids. Im impressed with her efforts, but unfortunately they are always futile. She ends EVERY class with a snooze. Sometimes we place bets on what time she will become comatose.

3:30pm From not until dinner at 7pm endless opportunities arise I like to keep it fresh and mix up my schedule, but here is a list of activities I have done so far:
• Play banana grams
• Play Frisbee
• Volunteer at the Poor Students Ashram
• Play hearts
• Plan trips
• Bike ride
• Practice Tabla
• Watch movies
• Jaunts in town
• Attend Tabla class
• Chai time!
I always build time for exploration into my afternoon. I love spending the afternoon biking through campus, parking off the main road and getting lost in the brush. I have discovered several hidden lakes and a quarry! I joke with the other Dickinsonians that some day we will grab a chai at the quarry.

7:00pm Dinner!!! I am always famished. Krishna and I do the plate/portion dance again. Thankfully, dinner offers protein of the meat variety. Unfortunately, every possible bone stands between me and delicious poultry goodness. As I have mentioned previously, Indians eat with their right hand, which comes in handy(PUNNY!) when searching for tiny bones. Tagore offers us silverware, but I always get handsy with my meals. It s liberating to mix, shovel, mush food with one hand! Transporting the sloppy dal/rice mixture from the plate to mouth is a whole different story. Note, this skill has been cleanly whipped from the western mind and takes much practice to perfect. At first, I would move my hand as quickly as possible to my mouth, emulating a quick gasping motion. This technique yielded a 50% success rate, leaving curried rice mixture slapped on my chin and cheeks more often than in the mouth hole. My clothing and friends were additional casualties of this experimental eating style, so I knew I must quickly adapt (to salvage both clothes and friends). During one out to dinner experience, I attentively observed a teenage Indian to acquire the appropriate technique. Her hands were so quick! It took a full minute of staring to figure out what she was doing with her hands. This instructive staring, coupled with some trials of my own, I have found a swift wrist flicking scoop takes the food to the mouth. My nub thumb is actually perfect for flicking the small rice mixture into my mouth (thanks linds)! Dinner is always followed by 2 tiny scoops ice cream! I never miss ice cream.

7:45-9:30pm another miscellaneous period. I usually try to study hindi or if im lucky ill have a skype date! Or a movie …or stargaze

9:30pm is a strict bed time since my day starts so early. Sioned and I pillow talk from opposite walls as we drift off to the land of malaria medicated dreams.

technological troubles

I apologize for my sparse blog activity! For those of you that aren't aware, my computer waived its white flag about 2.5 weeks ago. I do have access to a local network about once a day, but unfortunately my skype dates, picture uploads and blog accounts have taken a severe hit from this unfortunate event. But have no fear, a new computer is on the horizon. Until then, I have been taking copious notes in my journal about my experiences and i will type them up later!

Going coconuts!

Once orientation ends I won’t have something to blog about every day, but until then fest your minds on more orientation excursions!!!!
1/2/2011
Before today our courtship with the city’s transportation was shoddy at best and nonexistent with the local languages, Telegu and Hindi. Why not kill two birds with one stone? We were split into groups, given a destination, assigned a Hindi peer tutor, and given 100 rupees each. We were off to discover the gems of Jubilee Hills!! The trek to shop com, main gate and the main campus are all 30 minutes from Tagore House, so we started on our warm, half hour saunter. We heard a city bus rattle up from behind and instantaneously perked up our attention.

Lesson 1 of transportation, if it moves faster than you, it has the right of way. The food chain of transportation: motorcycles yield to no one (king of the road!), busses yield to the motorcycles due to lack of agility, autorickshaws have quite a maneuverable size but do not accelerate as quickly as other modes (so yield to the bus and motorcycle), the bicycle yields to all motorized vehicles, and finally the pedestrian yields to everything faster and bigger than itself. Astute attention is required when navigating any street! I have already avoided several injuries due to my training in speed and agility. Kept on our toes by the approaching bus, we observed its drunken motions. Bindhu, our tutor, began to lightly jog as the bus approached. We all followed like confused ducklings and watched her gracefully jump aboard. We clumsily followed suit.

Lesson 2, survival of the fittest. If traffic doesn’t yield to pedestrians, why should buses. It felt like a cowboy in a western as I grasped the handle in the bus’s doorway and ran alongside (avoiding uneven terrain) till I could hop from the road to the bus’s steps. Once inside, imminent danger had not been avoided. While counter balancing the sway and jerk of the buses motions I made my way towards a seat, clinging from hand hold to solid foot placement. Once the open seat had been reached, one must make sure (if female) the seat about to be occupied contains a ladies marking. Women are only allowed to sit in pre-marked seats at the front of the bus. Even though I originally found this oppressive, I learned this is actually a safety precaution mandated by the city. A monkey man carrying a satchel of tickets and swinging from the hand rungs on the roof of the bus swiftly exchanged our rupees for tickets. The bus spit us onto the street once we reached the township of Gachibowli. We were stranded in the middle of the road, unable to gain passage to either side of the intersection, but did not have to wait long to hop onto the next leg of our journey: shared auto. Shared autos are a larger rickshaw and have fixed rates!yay!

Lesson 3, always carry small bills and change. The different modes of transportation are extremely economical, so upon arriving at the next township we sampled the local fare to break our 100 rupee notes. I was immediately drawn to a coconut stand: big green coconuts in the shade of a wheeled cart, waiting to quench the thirst of the warm pedestrians!! The vendor whacked off the top of the nut, slipped a straw into the liquid and handed it over. Bindhu watched me suck in a giant gulp. The coconut water was thick and warmish and tasted of spoiled vegetables/milk. Yech! I forced the liquid down. Bindhu smiled and continued to sip from her nut. I felt the pressure from her eyes. I had to drink it…or at least pretend. When she turned her back, I “accidentally spilled” some, but one of my friends kindly brought my spillage to my attention. I wanted to abandon this annoying, distasteful nut, but there were no trash cans. I was not about to contribute to India’s trash problem, so I clenched that nut in my right hand. The vendor’s stand was right next to a goddess’s shrine erected to ensure the safety of the streets. How appropriate! An elderly woman who was dressing the goddess and attending to the needs of the goddess offered grain to bystanders in her honor. She thrust a grain filled hand in my face and I offered my free hand to accept her gift. She looked upset and taken aback, and once again offered the grain to my face. Was she supposed to drop it in my mouth? No, others were eating it out of their hands. I offered my hand again, and she shoved it out of the way and tapped my coconut violently. I had barbarically been offering my left hand!! No wonder she was so disgusted!!!!!I quickly transferred my nut to my left and accepted the grain with my right.whew.

Lesson 4, confidence is key. Bindhu led us toward the edge of another street. We all stood paralyzed a few feet from the edge of the street. “It’s no big deal. Just walk confidently and hold your palm out towards the ground. ” Bindhu offered this information so casually, like we were discussing the weather on a Sunday afternoon, not playing tic tac toe with death. Autos can smell your fear, and if you falter for a second, they take full advantage of your hesitation. My insides were Mexican jumping beans, but I put on a calm demeanor. I stuck to Bindhu like white on rice. Nut in hand, I successfully made it across the street. “This confounded nut is cumbersome and huge! Are there really no trash cans in the nation of India?” We must cross yet another street, and when Bindhu turned her head, I casually dropped my coconut into a large metal pipe ‘trashcan’. It is currently being used as a trashcan and is the closest thing to looking like a trashcan, therefore good riddance of my nut. I feigned more confidence during my street crossing and jumped another bus.

Final arrival at Jubilee Hills! We walked down a side street and were sucked into a colorful, aroma filled road. This short spurt of pavement led us to the gate of a temple to the goddess Kali. Through the iron gate, the temple looks like candyland! Bright and pastel colors adorn the carvings in the pointy roof. Hundreds of shoes were piled near a central fountain, and we followed suit. Although I still anxiously consider giardia when sporting naked feet in the city, I do really enjoy the feeling of bare feet. We washed our feet with a horde of other Indians and filled into que for the temple. Before reaching the entrance, an official looking photographer ushered us out of line and insisted he photograph us for the paper. Whities visiting a Hindu temple; that just doesn’t happen every day. We were able to jump back in line and pass through the metal detector quite slyly. A thick brass threshold separated the outside world from the outer courtyard of the temple. We stepped over its ornate carvings and found ourselves amidst a crowd of Indian bodies. These Indians were surrounding a flat circular slab of stone. One Indian would approach the stone and try to balance a coin on its side. Bindhu informed us if the coin remained standing, the wish would come true, if not, no dice. Beyond the “wishing well”, was open polished stone ground. An older man was laying upon the stone, prone, perfectly sill, praying. Being the first Sunday of the new year, the temple was bustling with people. We opted out of waiting in line to see the inner shrine, and walked along the outside of the candyland shrine to view a mosaic depiction of the idol. Hindus had tied coconut leaves, bangles, and sacks of spices to the walls surrounding the mosaic. All around us all ages, all castes, all levels of mental soundness were paying their respects to Kali. We returned to our shoes, and returned home the way we had come.

This day is not over yet, but I will inform you later of the events later that evening!!!!!!!Hold on to your pants!

miscellaneous musings

I want to paint a few pictures for you:

Madhuri (our resident director)- What a firecracker! She is such a demonstrative woman, which seems odd since we have been told to avoid physical contact. She is quite maternal! I have never seen such an interesting face though. Her lips are frozen in a perfect triangle and don’t move when she talks! She just clicks her teeth, but surprisingly she has some of the best English I’ve heard so far. If you watch her speak, it is a complete mind game. You hear the noise and see the teeth chomps, but they are unsynchronized, so it’s a wonder how it forms recognizable sounds!!She would be the best ventriloquist! I have started turning my shoulder /back to her when she speaks to the group because I cant listen when im intently studying her gnashing and quick tongue movements. Her face is always completely serene. She never raises an eyebrow or twitches any face muscle that I have seen. All her facial expression comes from her eyeballs, which rapidly swivel around and bulge.

Indians love their socks- In the airport I noted the sock sandal phenomenon is quite the fashion statement. I don’t see this in the dusty city as much, but it still appears popular. I narrowed it down to 2 reasons: they take off their shoes for mosque or temple and we learned it is never ok to walk around barefoot (giardia, and assorted parasites), or Indians think its cold this time of year! It is maximum of upper 70s during the day, and mid 60s at night, so pleasant. But the Indians wear ski mask type face warmers, and complain about the cold!!!

Malaria medication- all the members of the Study in India Program (SIP) are on some kind of malaria meds. By far the most popular is mephloquine. Mephloquine is a once a week white tablet, which when taken without food makes me scrape my tongue along the roof of my mouth involuntarily from the bitterness. The side effects are nightmarish dreams, depression, aggression and anxiety. I have been having some wacky dreams, but have not experienced any other side effects…yet. But sometimes I day dream about all of the international students going on an aggressive malaria medicated rampage.

All the washing machines have a sari wash cycle!
Mothballs are placed in all of the sinks to prevent bugs from climbing up the drains. At first I tried to use any bathroom as quickly as possible to avoid its bitter odor, but I am growing quite fond of the scent! It’s kind of like the acetone experience in chemistry (ask me about this scent association if you are unaware). Soon the smell of mothballs will make me have to urinate!

The pollution in the air is giving me gnarly black boogers. For the first several days I thought I had a nose bleed because all of my boogers were opaque. Now I understand that is the result of the air quality in my nasal cavity. Mmm! And I have so many too!

The other day I was walking around in a bazaar and felt a burp well up inside of me. Once released, it pleasantly tasted of French fires!!! I have not eaten French fires since we got here. What a pleasant surprise! I never thought I would feel so enthused about a French fry burp that I would have to blog about it.

Śubh krisamas!!!

I don’t think I have taken a moment spell it out yet, but: I LOVE INDIA! Every turn is an adventure, each experience is different than expected. I never know what to expect, but that is the beauty of it. Indians themselves aren’t certain if a professor will show up to class today, but that fluidity weaves the cultural fabric of India!

12/31/2010
It is new years eve, and up until this point CIEE has been running us ragged. I guess they are keeping us from succumbing to our jetlag type tendencies, which I can still feel lingering in my system. But this afternoon, after finishing our academic consultations, we were free to do whatever we pleased! Freedom! First order of business, we walked to the ATM on campus. The campus sprawls in all directions, and besides a scattering of dorms and academic buildings, it is very rural. We took a dirt road most of the way to shop com (shopping complex), and viewed flat rock formations (which I will be sure to explore later in the semester), expanses of grasslands, a watertower not far in the distance (you know what that means), and a post office on the way. Shop com is a lively dusty place! Dogs skitter all over campus, but shop com seems to be their hang out too. The dogs all look so mangy and unfortunately, it is surprising to see an alert playful pup. Shop com houses an ATM, cobbler, general store/grocery, beauty salon, tailor, and a small food vendor. I suppose it can be compared to an outdoor Indian HUB. It was here, in the shop com I was first acquainted with the homosocial behavior of India. While observing Indians at the shop com, I noted and expected men and women not associating with each other. Even though we had been told, I was still surprised to see pods of men holding hands. It is a platonic friendship grip, but it still made me chuckle. Little differences like that just send me into a giggly mess.

The decision regarding the potential formation of the Telegana state was to be made today, but it will not be revealed to the public until late January (after the major festivals), so our resident director urged us to be home by 11pm to avoid any sporadic rioting. In fact, the entire city has been under a midnight curfew, but they extended it to 1am for new years eve. About 9 of us decided to venture out of the campus walls to the All Crafts Mela. And so our journey began in an autorickshaw. The auto drivers assessed the white skin on our faces and automatically offered us triple the usual price. We were able to haggle our way down to 1.5 the regular auto price (I consider this a victory)! I might need a whole separate post to describe an autorickshaw ride. I will reserve that for later, but know that we arrived unscathed.

The craft mela is overstimulation to the max. I feel like the word overstimulation describes any situation in India thus far (no wonder we are always exhausted). If you show the slightest bit of interest, the vendors pounce and exhaust your resistance. Even eye contact puts them in a frenzy! I began letting my head swivel in all directions and flitted from stall to stall, but soon kept my eyes under control because I felt badly showing interest in a product I knew I wouldn’t buy. After handling many fabrics, caressing several shoes and contemplating countless jewelry pieces, I finally saw something that was worth pursuing. A heavy black stone elephant with bronze metal shards laid in its back!!! Ooh beautiful elephant please be mine! I casually approached the stall. I acted like I was a mature, seasoned haggler.
“How much?”
“eiight hundraaad fity rupee, madam.”
“ohh, too much.” (I put on a puzzled face) “500?” (you are supposed to at least half the price)
“No.” and he shoes me away with his hand. FAILURE! I have never been good at haggling, but it looks like my tequnique hasn’t improved. Maybe I need to be more expressive with my face and body language? Maybe try to be more assertive, or not look like im a preadolescent 13 year old? If you guys have any tips please feel free to educate me in the haggling arts.

I began to feel really faint as I explored the rest of the craft fair, and was having trouble focusing my eyes. We have been told explicitly not to eat any sort of street food for at least 15 days, but I was in dire need. I swerved to the food stands and searched for the least spicy, well cooked food I could find. Popcorn. I gobbled it up and of course it was cloaked in a foreign spice, but it was delicious. Only time will tell if I dodged the diarrhea bullet. I successfully found my way to the rest of the group and we headed off to dinner.

The ride to dinner was epic. We were trying desperately to get to a restaurant recommended to us in Bnajari Hills, Our Place. Before arriving in india it was thought that English could be used almost universally to communicate. After merely a week it is now common knowledge that rickshaw drivers are the exception. But stepping into the auto we had no idea. He parroted the directions back to us, and we assumed he knew what they meant. We of course had no idea where we were supposed to be going and squeezed between cars and tailgated motorcycles while we flew through the city. 30 minutes later, he started assertively addressing us in Hindi. It is all gargles and grunts to me. We repeat the directions and he nods “ok,ok”. He has no idea where the restaurant is, we have no idea where we are, it is a mess! We keep pulling over to ask where Our Place is. Every Indian knows where Our Place is located except our driver, hahaha. We can tell he is frustrated by his more aggressive approach to driving. I was feeling particularly faint the whole ride, and was perched atop every ones’ laps. My friends were holding onto me, and I napped for part of the ride. We finally ducked into a side ally and the face of Our Place is gleaming in front of us!! Our auto driver was laughing hysterically (out of frustration or punchiness?) and we tipped him well. We expected this restaurant to be a small hole in the wall, but in the entrance was a pool of water with floating candles and flowers. The inside was a glorious Indian jungle!!!! In the center of it all was a sitar player goin crazzay. The hostess led us to the upstairs balcony where we could view the green below, but feel intimate. What a meal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can’t use too many exclamation points while describing this meal! Naan flowing like wine, rice dishes galore, an epecially buttery dhal, and authentic Chinese food! There was no shame, just stuffing our faces. Fat and content we tried to hail a cab for the way home, but had no luck. We settled on one auto. Once again crammed to the brim with human limbs, we set off. I once again dozed most of the way home, but it took a solid hour to reach our hostel.

I spent the first moments of the new year in the shower with the electricity shut off. But I quickly dressed and ran to the balcony because I could hear the fireworks and eruption from the city. I could not see anything, but could hear it all, which was a dreamy effect! A friend and I star gazed on the balcony sleepily chatting to ring in the new year until the power was rebooted. What a magical way to change over the decade!